


somehow you kicked all my walls in

by estrella30



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band), One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Touring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-11 15:52:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/800457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estrella30/pseuds/estrella30
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enough time passes between the last Manchester show and the next time he sees Harry that Michael thinks he probably imagined everything that had happened between the two of them. </p><p>or, Harry and Michael hook up a lot over the course of the tour</p>
            </blockquote>





	somehow you kicked all my walls in

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be a few thousand words of harry and Michael hooking up on tour but somehow grew gross feelings and is over 15k idek. 
> 
> I tried to keep the cities from the upcoming tour in order but I might have fumbled with the timeline a bit in the beginning bc harry did his surprise trip to LA while I was writing it. I did the best I could to keep it accurate!
> 
> thanks to jessypt for the beta and loafers for the aussie pick! thanks also to nemorals and mrsyt31 for reading along and letting me know it wasn't total crap as I was writing. 
> 
> any and all references to ashton in various states of undress wearing glasses are for nemorals bc she is the best <3
> 
> any remaining mistakes are my own!

*

 

Enough time passes between the last Manchester show and the next time he sees Harry that Michael thinks he probably imagined everything that had happened between the two of them. 

It had been a long tour—a lot of shows and dates, too much running around, and not nearly enough sleep. Harry and Michael fell into being friends really quick, so it only makes sense that Michael’s brain somehow twisted the memory of their friendship and changed it into something more. 

Like, he knows for sure that Harry would come to Michael’s room and watch movies with him on their nights off, but the part where sometimes Harry’s hand would wind up resting over his, his fingers curled loose around Michael’s wrist, that part probably never happened. Or he remembers how sometimes after a show when the two of them were still really hopped up on adrenaline, well, sometimes Harry would kind of crowd into Michael’s space, ducking him into corners and abandoned rooms and he’d kiss Michael, just a little bit, just a hot press of his mouth against Michael’s, the faint print of Harry’s smile against his cheek.

At least Michael thinks those are things that happened, but maybe not. Probably not, actually. There’s probably some kind of fancy word for it, some kind of on tour, male bonding, mass hallucination that falls over everyone when they first hit the road. That would actually make a little more sense. 

Actually, now that the idea is in his head, Michael thinks that’s probably what happened. He’s sure it’s something that can happen, at least. He should Google it. 

“Hey!” Michael tips his head up and shouts into the air. He doesn’t see any of the others, but he knows they’re around somewhere. He figures if he just shouts randomly someone will answer. “Someone look something up for me on their computer!”

No one answers, but Michael hears the floorboards creak overhead which means at least one of them is listening but ignoring him. _Fuckers._ “Cal, is that you?”

“No,” Calum shouts back. “Cal’s dead. Luke ate him.”

Something thumps loudly, and then Michael hears Luke screeching and Calum laughing; Michael rolls his eyes. He could try and look it up on his phone, but he hates typing on the tiny buttons and really just wants a computer. The fact that he has his own upstairs but is too lazy to get up and go use it is irrelevant. 

“Someone look up if you can get a disease where you hallucinate shit when you’re on tour!”

There’s another crash and then Calum shouts, “You’re hallucinating?”

“No, I just—“

“You have a disease?” Luke calls out. 

“ _No_ , I need someone to—“

Ashton wanders into the room in nothing but a pair of boxers and glasses, eating a piece of toast. “Is the disease on your dick? Can I see it?”

“Fuck all of you.” Michael sulks and tosses his phone on the floor. 

*

He never winds up getting the chance to Google the hallucination question because they have a meeting with their management team that afternoon, and then a concert date announcement, and some radio promotion, and before Michael realizes it he’s back at the house zoning out on the couch watching Eastenders and trying to muster up enough energy for a wank before he goes to bed. 

His phone buzzes on the coffee table. When he picks it up and sees a text from Harry he has to remind himself that anyone could walk in and see him at any given moment, so he should probably try and force his face into something a little less _HARRY STYLES IS ON MY PHONE_ and a little more, _so I’ve got a text message, so what_?

_heard you guys announced another London date today…that’s sick. Lemme know when you’re free we’ll get food. xxx_

_yeah, sure, I suppose we could squeeze you in_

_haha yes please I hope you have time in between staring moodily at your guitar and writing the next great emo soundtrack of our generation_

Michael shoves the phone down the back of his pants and takes a picture. He opens up a text to Harry and types, _this is how funny I think your jokes are_ , attaches the picture of his arse and hits send. 

*

It takes a few days but Harry finally makes a plan to come to the house one night for pizza and a movie. It’s been long enough now that Michael has completely convinced himself that nothing ever happened with him and Harry, which means he most definitely did hallucinate any time he thinks Harry ever kissed him, and that he should probably be watched very closely when they’re all away on tour again to try and keep this kind of insanity from happening again. 

Harry knocks, which is nice. Most of the people they know just kind of barge in, and Michael answers the door singing What Makes You Beautiful into a lager bottle while wearing his Harry mask. It’s one of his better ideas to be sure. 

“You’re such a dick.” Harry shakes his head and walks into the house, pulling his coat off and hanging it on the back of a chair as he goes. It’s strange, seeing him here. Michael hasn’t been in this house forever, but it feels more like home than most places do these days. Watching Harry walk around in it, touching their remote and Michael’s song book and the ugly ceramic cat statue they’ve got sitting on the side table, is a little much. 

Michael pulls the mask off and tosses it on the floor. “I try.”

“Who’s here?” Calum calls out from upstairs. There’s a crash and a thump and then Ashton moaning lowly as Calum laughs.

“It’s Liam,” Harry shouts. 

“Good. I’m glad it’s not Harry, I hate that fucker,” Calum yells. 

Harry holds two middle fingers up in the air at the direction of the steps, and Michael laughs. 

“Does anyone care that I’m dying up here?” Ashton shouts. “Cal is actually stepping on my fucking head, but that’s just all right with you all?”

Michael looks at Harry, and Harry shrugs. “Did you want to call for pizzas or…”

“Pizza’s sound great,” Michael says, slinging an arm around Harry’s shoulders and steering him into the room with the TV.

*

Calum and Ash finally manage to make it downstairs, but Luke stays in his room the entire night. His mum’s gone off with a friend of hers for a day or two, making the rest of them promise not to get into anything too wild while she’s gone. Michael thinks that if she could see them all now – Cal and Ash curled together on the floor like puppies with their heads on the same pillow playing Mario Kart and Harry sitting with Michael on the couch, nothing more than a guitar between the two of them – she’d be shocked. 

“Hey, assholes, smile, I’m going to take your picture,” Michael says to Calum and Ash on the floor. 

Calum raises his eyebrows. “Why?”

“Because,” Michael says, and just as he presses his finger to the camera button, Cal shoves his trakkies down so his dick is hanging out; Michael now officially has a picture of his best friend’s cock on his phone. 

He smirks evilly and shoves the phone into his pocket. “I was going to say _because I’m going to text Luke’s mum and show her how good we’re being tonight_ , but since you decided to flash your dick at me I think I’ll pass.”

“Maybe you should put it up on Twitter,” Harry suggests.

Ashton snorts. “Already tweeted about it.”

“No you didn’t,” Michael argues. They all fall silent, and within seconds Michael’s phone starts blowing up from all the twitter alerts. “Or maybe you did.”

Calum jumps up from the floor and races across the room into the kitchen, fingers typing away furiously on his screen. “That’s all right because I’m telling Twitter how Ashton cries at Disney movies.”

“That’s a lie and you know it,” Ashton shouts, leaping up to chase Cal from the room. 

“There’s nothing wrong with crying over Disney movies,” Harry calls out, and Michael can’t help it, he bursts out laughing. Cal and Ash shout at each other some more then race each other up the steps, sending doors banging and waking Luke up from a dead sleep when they apparently jump on his bed if Luke shouting, “Hey, get the fuck off me!” is any indication. 

Michael hears a door slam and then the three of them laughing upstairs. After a minute it goes quiet, the only sound the low hum of the Mario Kart menu screen playing on a loop. 

He clears his throat and smiles awkwardly, suddenly overly aware that it’s just him and Harry on the couch together, Michael with his back shoved into one corner and Harry in the middle, Michael’s feet tucked under Harry’s thigh. He’s got one of his old acoustic guitars lying across his lap because he’d been fooling around with a melody earlier, trying to see if it would ever pan out into anything. So far it’s just a melody though, nothing really hard sticking in his brain. 

“Hey.” Harry yanks the beanie off his head and scrubs a hand through his hair. He’s in an old looking black jumper and a pair of dark skinny jeans. His hair is sticking out in every direction, a weird looking dent in it from the headband he’s been using to hold it back, and Michael’s three seconds from teasing Harry about it when Harry leans over, curling his fingers over the neck of the guitar and picking up from Michael’s lap. 

“Can I put this here?” Harry gestures to the coffee table. Michael wants to say something witty or funny or anything, really, but he’s got a lump stuck in his throat because that look – Michael’s seen that look on Harry’s face before. Maybe he hadn’t hallucinated as much of the last few weeks of the tour as he’d convinced himself he did. 

He nods. “Yeah, sure.”

Harry smiles at him, just a small quirk of his lips, and then he’s carefully placing the guitar on the table and shuffling over on the couch, crowding into Michael’s space and forcing Michael to sit up, press his back into the cushions, and tilt his head back to look at where Harry’s looming over him. 

“I’m gonna kiss you now, all right?”

Michael swallows hard. His breath is coming hard and fast. He can hear the steady thump-thump-thump of his heartbeat thudding in his ears. He nods jerkily and licks his lips, and Harry groans. 

“Been waiting to do this all night,” he says quietly. “Couldn’t wait for Cal and Ash to fuck off and go to bed.” Before Michael can even think of what to say to that Harry’s leaning in, fingers curving over Michael’s shoulder and tugging him close. 

Harry kisses him softly at first, just a brush of lips and his teeth biting lightly at Michael’s mouth. Michael’s waited too long for this though, had too many nights lying in bed wondering if he was ever going to get to have this again, have _Harry_ again, so he reaches up, slides his fingers into Harry’s hair, and pulls him down, licking deep into his mouth. 

Harry grunts and shifts, his knees bracketing one of Michael’s thighs, and he kisses Michael long enough that Michael’s lips go tingly and numb, bruised feeling and overly sensitive. Their tongues slide together, and Michael tries not to make too many desperate noises when Harry groans into his mouth, his fingers touching Michael’s face and neck and sliding into the hair at the back of his neck.

“Oi, did you fuckers finish all the pizza?” 

Ash’s voice cracks through the air, and Harry leaps into the far corner of the couch and runs his fingers through his hair, cheeks and neck flushed pink, his mouth swollen and wet and red. 

Michael has to look away because if he keeps looking at Harry he’s going to want to kiss him again and possibly never stop.

“There’s some in the kitchen, dick,” Michael shouts back, and then the three of them are all pounding down the stairs in nothing but their boxers with cowboy hats on their heads. Michael hears Harry laugh and looks over, finds Harry smiling at him fondly, and when he stands up he holds out a hand for Michael to grab. 

“Come and find me a beer, slave,” Harry jokes, and Michael stands and follows him, thumb brushing the inside of Harry’s palm as he goes. 

*

Michael manages to see Harry two more times before One Direction heads off to tour the rest of Europe without them. 

The first time was just a fast lunch at Nandos before Harry left for LA. Harry texted him at half past ten in the morning. Michael pretended not to see the message for forty-five entire seconds before texting back that he was free. 

He was pretty proud of those forty-five seconds, to be honest. 

By the time Michael got there, Harry was already at a table with food for both of them. Michael didn’t try and think too hard about how Harry remembered what he liked or the fact that he picked them a table near the back of the restaurant, so they would be recognized and interrupted a little less. It wasn’t a date or anything, and Michael definitely wasn’t doing anything stupid like fucking swooning over the way Harry’s shirt was hanging low around the collar, showing off more of the bird tattoos than he’d ever seen in public, or staring at Harry’s hands, his long, strong fingers with those new fucking rings on them.

Because that would be _dumb_.

Nothing even happened that day. They ate food and had an hour long debate over which is the coolest kind of bird (Harry said ostrich, because he’s wrong, and Michael said peacock because it’s a bird with the word _cock_ in its name, seriously). When they were done, Harry gave him a hug and tucked his face into Michael’s neck a little bit, but there was nothing nice about it really; the piece of gum Harry squished against Michael’s neck that then got stuck in his hair proved that. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Cal pokes his head into the bathroom later, looking confused while Michael rubs a piece of ice over the side clump of his hair. 

Michael frowns. “I asked Twitter how to get gum out of my hair and this is what they said.” He’s been rubbing the same spot for ten minutes, and nothing’s happened except his fingers going numb. Fucking Twitter. “Someone else said rub peanut butter on it, but I don’t think we have any. Do you think Nutella would work?”

“You use my Nutella to rub in your fucking hair, and I’ll kill you.” Calum glares but then digs a comb out of the cabinet and shoves Michael until he’s sitting on top of the counter, legs spread so Calum can step in between his thighs. “How the fuck did you do this anyway?”

Michael sighs and stares up at the ceiling. “I was out with Harry and—“

“Oooooh, _Haaaaarry_.” Calum digs the comb into the deepest part of the knot and tugs. Michael kicks at Calums thigh until he yelps and jumps away. “Should I even be trying to get this out? Is it a piece of _love gum_? Do you want to save it under your pillow because it’s got his spit on it?”

“Piss off,” Michael grumps. He hops off the counter and stares sadly in the mirror. He’s got _gum_ in his _hair_. “This is the worst.”

He digs his phone out of his pocket and flips open a text screen. 

_I cant get the gum out of my hair. We’re no longer friends_

_awwww I’m sorry princess maybe you should cut it out?? : D xx_

Michael narrows his eyes. He’s already grabbed the scissors and has been staring forlornly at the hunk of hair, debating doing just that. He sighs and sends back, _maybe I should. Maybe you should watch out next time I see you. Maybe YOURE going to get something in YOUR hair_

_I’d like to see you try ; )_

Michael clicks his phone off, sighs heavily, and snips. 

*

The second time started with a text from Harry that went like this:

_hey, man, I’m back. Fancy getting some food later??_

It’s half past two on a Friday afternoon, and Michael is dead fucking bored. Everyone went out earlier when he was sleeping, and no one told him where they were going. No one’s answering his texts except for Ash, but he’s not answering, really, just sending Michael random pictures like he’s supposed to find them on a fucking scavenger hunt or something. 

_I don’t know what a loaf of bread, a crying baby and a picture of your shoe have in common so stop sending me pictures and just tell me where you are you douche_ he’d finally texted back and then nothing. He’d not heard from Ash in the past hour. 

Sometimes Michael’s band is honestly the worst. 

_I’m sorry, who’s this?_ Michael responds to Harry’s text asking if he wanted to go get food. Harry’s been MIA pretty much since he stepped into Heathrow to fly out to LA and that’s, whatever. That’s fine. He’s Harry fucking Styles for Christ sake; he’s hardly going to make a point to keep in touch with Michael when he’s all the way on the entire other side of the planet. Michael doesn’t care at all. It doesn’t bother him a bit that it’s been four days since he’s heard from him other than a few random tweets. 

_haha sorry sorry. Got busy when I was out there you know how it is_

Michael laughs because really, he’s got no fucking clue. 

_let me make it up to you. Come to mine and I’ll cook, yeah? xx_

And, well, Michael’s not even going to pretend that he’s going to say no to that. Who is he actually trying to fool?

_all right I’ll come. But you better make it good, styles. You owe me_

_yeah yeah see you soon xxx_

Michael tries not to smile to himself too much when he gets ready to jump into the shower. 

*

Harry makes a chicken stir fry and doesn’t let Michael put his dish in the sink until he’s eaten half the vegetables on his plate. Michael frowns the entire way through, but Harry’s in a tight black t-shirt and a pair of skintight jeans. After Michael’s done Harry shoves him against his lounge room wall and kisses him until his mouth is numb, knees wobbling and shaky, and then he kisses him some more.

Michael forgives him for the vegetables. 

*

_Best of luck to the emos tonight! You’re all going to do great – so proud of you!xx_

“Hey, Harry just tweeted at us!” Luke shouts out from the other side of the room they’re hanging out in backstage. Michael already got the tweet alert so he’d already seen it; that along with the text Harry had sent that Michael was pretty sure was meant just for him.

_don’t be nervous you’re amazing and soon everyone’s gonna know that. You’re going to smash it, Mikey, mark my words_

Which is all very nice but Michael still feels like he’s going to puke. 

It’s just – this is big for them, fucking huge even. This is them – just them – in a place bigger than they’ve ever played before and it sold out in _seven fucking minutes_. Michael’s not stupid. He knows a fair amount of it is because they’d been touring with One Direction and that they’re getting ready to go back out with them (only to America this time, and Jesus fuck, they’re going to be _touring fucking America_ ), but whatever the reason the people bought the tickets it’s them they’re coming to see tonight. 5 Seconds of Summer, not One Direction. It’s them up there on stage, their songs, theirs to take or fuck up, and Christ, Michael’s shitting himself.

Ash keeps sticking his head out the door and into the hall, the sounds of the stadium around them getting consistently louder and louder. Michael’s trying not to pay too much attention to him, just keeps busying himself with his old acoustic, tuning and retuning the strings until the pads of his fingers start to go numb, when all of a sudden Ash yells out, “Holy fucking _shit_!” and goes bounding from the room. 

Michael looks up from his guitar and meets Luke’s eyes from the other side of the room. “I’ve got no fucking clue,” Cal says, his hands held up in the air, but then Ash is bounding back in, the widest grin Michael’s almost ever seen splitting his face, and a second after he’s back in behind him walk Harry and Niall.

Michael feels his eyes go wide, and he sucks in a breath. “What the fuck?”

“Had a few days off,” Niall says, bounding into the room and grabbing them one by one and pulling them into huge hugs. “Figured we’d take a trip over and see how you lads were faring. You didn’t think we were going to let you do this alone, did you?”

Niall’s hugging Michael now, but Harry’s the one Michael’s watching. Harry’s hanging back, giving the rest of the guys a hive five or a handshake, but his eyes never leave Michael’s face. He’s smiling a little, the edges of his mouth curving up slowly, and Michael feels hot and cold all over, his heart racing even faster than it had been already. He puts the guitar down before it slips from his nervous fingers, and when Harry crosses the room, he pulls Michael in tight, arms wrapped around his back, mouth tucked in close to Michael’s ear. 

“Yeah, you didn’t think I was going to let you do this alone, did you?” Harry says, and Michael’s heart nearly beats right out of his chest. 

“Thanks,” Michael says back, actually serious for once. 

Harry kisses Michael’s hair, so quick he almost doesn’t realize it, and then he pulls away, eyes shining brightly. 

“So come on,” Harry bellows, curling his fingers into fists and shaking his arms in the air like a massive fucking dork. “Are you guys ready to rock London or what?”

And it may be over the top and cheesy as hell, but it’s Harry and they all kind of expect that from him by now. 

“Come on, you fuckers!” Calum is standing on the back of the couch, arms curled under his chest like he’s got muscles or something. “Let’s do this!”

“Yeah!” they all shout back, and then they’re off, charging down the hall, four band members and two of their very best mates. 

*

The show is fucking ace. 

Michael doesn’t like to brag (well, all right, that’s a lie, he loves to brag), but it was like the minute they stepped out there and the lights went down they all kind of turned into other beings or something. Like superhero versions of themselves, where they were Michael and Luke and Ash and Cal, but bigger somehow, or better. 

They fucking rocked it, and the people loved them and loved their songs. Michael doesn’t think he’s ever going to get over standing on a stage and hearing a crowd of people sing their lyrics back to them, the lyrics set to the music that he wrote with his four best friends, and tonight was just…incredible. It was fucking amazing. Fuck.

“You guys were fucking _amazing_!” Harry’s still carrying on, waving his hands in the air and talking quicker and brighter than Michael’s ever seen. “I thought it was all going good, and then you did Gotta Get Out and the place went fucking _mad_! That was _sick_.”

Michael laughs and runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the sweaty strands and pushing it away from his face. He’s not sure he’s every going to get over Harry Styles of One Direction gushing to him about his band and music, but okay, if that’s what makes Harry happy and all. 

“You’re a fucking dork,” Michael tells him instead. Harry pulls up short and grabs Michael’s wrist, tugging him to a stop. 

“Really,” Harry says flatly. 

Michael opens his mouth to tease but in a split second he catches the look in Harry’s eye, watches the rest of his band and Niall and their handlers filter down the hall and back into the dressing room. He turns his wrist in Harry’s hand so his palm is facing up and curls his fingers into a fist. 

“Really,” Michael says back, and right there in the middle of the hall he pulls. Harry stumbles until they’re pressed together hip to chest, and Michael thinks: _fuck it_.

“How long do you have ‘till you have to head back?”

Harry groans, tips his head so he’s biting at Michael’s chin and throat, already steering him through the empty halls and fucking around with doorknobs behind Michael’s back. 

“Soon,” Harry says. “An hour, maybe a little more.” 

“Fuck,” Michael breathes and then halla-fucking-leujah the next door Harry tries turns and opens and it’s got a light switch and a lock and everything. “An hour?”

“It’s good.” Harry’s already got Michael against the wall, the frame from the door next to his head and he’s kissing him, shoving his tongue in and licking the roof of Michael’s mouth, twisting his fingers in Michael’s hair and the collar of his sweat damp shirt. “An hour is fine.”

Michael can’t even think about time, he can’t think about how this feels like more than they’re ever done before, more than Michael’s done with a guy ever, because Harry’s panting hot and desperate into his mouth, his hands pulling Michael’s shirt from his jeans, the tips of his fingers sliding along Michael’s back and sides. Harry bites Michael’s bottom lip, shoves his thigh between Michael’s legs, and Michael can’t help himself; he rocks into it, pressing his dick against Harry’s leg, desperate for any kind of friction. 

“Can we do something?” Harry asks. His eyes are blown wide, mouth slick with spit and bruised looking, and Michael can’t even think about how much he wants him, how he would probably give Harry any bloody thing he could think to ask for. 

“Yeah,” Michael says. He leans in and kisses Harry again because it’s at least a little familiar and not as scary as this choking swell of emotion he’s feeling. He’s sure it’s just a wear off from the adrenaline, the idea that Harry went through so much effort to come and see him that has him leaning back into the wall when Harry pushes, sucking in a breath and biting his lip when Harry’s fingers dance over the waist of his jeans. “Yeah, anything.”

“I want to blow you,” Harry says quietly. He tucks his fingers under the waist of Michael’s jeans and waits. “Is that all right?”

Michael’s head is spinning. He thinks he should probably be a little more freaked out about the idea of Harry blowing him, seeing as how this is a first on so many levels – first time with a guy, first time with Harry - but he can’t really process anything, doesn’t find it weird or strange at all with the way Harry’s sucking a bruise in the hollow of his throat, his fingers curled tight around Michael’s hips. Michael just – he _wants_. He wants Harry, and that’s the only thing he can think about right now. The rest will all have wait until later. 

“Yeah, that’s – definitely,” Michael pants because holy shit, Harry’s popping the button on his jeans and pulling down the zip, and Michael is so achingly, blindingly hard his eyes nearly cross.

“Good,” Harry says and drops to his knees. 

Michael’s always known how fit Harry is, how sexy and hot and breathtakingly gorgeous at times, but nothing could have ever prepared him for what Harry looks like with his hands on Michael’s hips, his pretty mouth stretching over the head of Michael’s cock. 

It’s just – it’s insane, how good it is. Michael’s dick is hard and thick, already wet at the head, and the heat of Harry’s mouth, the slick slide of his tongue around him, curling over the top, licking long down his shaft, fingers going tight against his hips, pulling him in closer to Harry’s mouth, has Michael’s head hitting back into the wall with a loud thunk.

“ _Fuck_ , Haz, holy fucking _shit_.”

Harry glances up at him and even under the fringe of his hair Michael can tell he’s fucking smirking. He shoves his fingers into Harry’s hair and yanks, pulling Harry in tighter, and Harry doesn’t fight it at all, just _goes_.

Mother. Fuck.

It doesn’t take long. Michael’s so amped up from the show and being on stage and Harry coming to see him, that the fact that Harry gives an amazing fucking blowjob barely even registers. He rocks his hips in short, sharp thrusts, Harry sucking him harder, fingers curled around the base of his dick and jacking him slowly. Michael wonders if this is going to be the only time he’s going to get to have this. He hopes to hell not because this is bloody amazing, and then Harry does something with his mouth, opens his throat and takes him all the way to the hilt. Michael can barely even speak, tugs on Harry’s hair a little to warn him, but Harry only nods and pulls him in closer.

“Fuck, Harry, lemme come on you,” Michael pants. “I want to—“

“Yeah,” Harry pulls off, mouth and chin shiny with spit, jacking him quickly. “Come on my face.” 

Michael chokes and makes a sound he’ll deny to the grave as he comes all over Harry’s lips and cheek and chin. 

He’s just – he can’t think, can barely breathe, but then Harry’s tucking him back into his pants and standing up, crowding into Michael’s space to kiss him, and Michael doesn’t even care that it’s his come on Harry’s skin that’s rubbing against him. He kisses Harry fiercely, sliding his fingers into Harry’s hair, tugging his head down, and licking hot into his mouth. 

“What do you want me to do?” Michael’s lips catch on the stubble of Harry’s chin. Harry groans and rocks against Michael’s hip, and ok, sure, he can go with that. He slides his hands from Harry’s hair and clutches his back, slipping his fingers under the hem of Harry’s shirt until he can feel warm skin. Harry shudders, curls in closer to him, and Michael bites at his jaw and lets Harry ride it out against his hip, skin turning damp and tacky under his fingers until he goes still and comes in his jeans with a muffled moan against Michael’s chest. 

It takes a minute for them to get their breathing back to normal, and then Harry’s pulling back and tossing the hair from his eyes, grinning at Michael slow and fucked out looking. 

“So,” Harry says slowly. “I just came in my jeans.”

“And I came on your face.” Michael beams. 

Harry rolls his eyes. “I forgot how much of a dork you are.”

Michael laughs and pushes away from the wall, lifting the bottom of his shirt up to rub at Harry’s face. Harry laughs and buries his face into it, and Michael says, “See? I’m being nice.”

“You’re a prince,” Harry says, and Michael grins some more. 

“What, I just got my first backstage blowjob after a concert.. I’m a true rock star now.”

They turn off the light and shut the door behind them as they head into the hall, walking slowly back to Michael’s dressing room. The closer they get the more they can hear the rest of the guys plus Niall singing and shouting and laughing in the room, and Michael glances at Harry through his fringe and chuckles. 

“You know, it’s going to be pretty obvious what we were doing just now.”

Harry shrugs, seemingly completely unbothered. “Eh. They’re going to find out soon enough anyway, might as well be now.”

Michael stops then, because what? 

“I mean when we’re on tour and everything,” Harry continues. “People are going to start to figure out what’s going on.”

Michel blinks. “Oh. Yeah. That’s—“

“It’s going to be great,” Harry says. “Best tour ever, yeah?”

And yeah, Michael thinks Harry might be right.

*

By the time they get to Mexico City they’re all so happy to see each other again that the two bands spend about ten minutes hugging each other, slapping each other’s backs, and trying to catch up with everyone all at once. 

“Fuck, I’ve missed your pretty face,” Cal tells Louis as he squeezes his cheeks. Louis laughs and chases Cal and Luke around the stadium while the techs are setting up for sound check. Michael leans against the edge of the stage and tilts his head in close to where Liam’s telling him about the shows they did in France and Spain and all the places Michael and them didn’t get to go. 

“It was sick. The crowds were massive.” Liam’s eyes are crinkled in a happy smile. Michael grins back easily, his eyes tracking Harry through the seats as he chases Ash with a pair of Josh’s dirty gym socks, Ash shrieking and laughing as he trips and sprawls out in the aisle. “It’s going to be so much better with you guys here though. We missed you a lot.”

Michael feels Harry’s eyes on him, and he smiles easily when Harry tugs on his own hair and points to Michael’s head. “I like the pink!” he shouts out. 

Michael reaches up and fingers his fringe. The pink was a spur of the moment decision aided by boredom, too many beers, and being mistakenly convinced Cal had a good idea. He’s getting used to it still. He’s fairly sure he looks like a droopy unicorn or something. 

He shouts back, “Thanks. Your hair still looks dumb as ever.”

Harry flips up two middle fingers, then lunges on top of Ash where he’s struggling to get up from the ground.

It’s good to be back.

*

They all make it through the first few shows and cities, spending as much time together as possible, Michael eating all the food set up by craft services, and hiding all of Sandy’s favorites just to hear him piss and moan when he goes looking for them. 

In Miami, Cal and Michael break into Liam’s hotel room and glue all of his shoes to the floor, so Liam gets back at them by enlisting Zayn’s help to rig a recording of an ear splitting scream to go off every time Cal turns on the lights in their room. Luke steals all of Niall’s pants from his luggage as they travel from Columbus to Nashville, and two days later in Atlanta he emerges from the shower with purple hair because Niall switched Luke’s shampoo to semi-permanent dye.

Ash steals Louis’ phone in D.C. and sends Eleanor dirty text messages, but if the way Louis disappears for the rest of the night is any indication Eleanor’s not as opposed to them as Ash had thought. 

Michael loves it. He loves being out with all of his old friends doing pranks, and the fact that Harry and the rest of them are his friends now too always amazes him. Harry’s there with him every day and night, too, helping Michael prank his own bandmates or listening to the new song Michael’s been working on or bringing him a handful of biscuits wrapped in a napkin when Michael’s too busy practicing to remember to grab food for himself. 

It’s good. It’s all really good.

It’s a muggy night in New York, and Michael’s bone tired from the show. Outdoor venues are the worst when the weather is like this, the air wet and thick, sweat sticking to his temples and soaking through his t-shirt. 

Louis, Zayn, Niall, and Liam all go out to get some drinks after the show. Michael figures Harry is with them, so when he gets out of his shower and hears his phone beeping with a new text message, he’s surprised to see it’s Harry.

_you asleep??_

Michael rubs a towel over his head then wipes it over the steam in the mirror. His damp fingers slip over the screen of his phone when he texts back.

_no just took a shower_

_good come up to my room ; )_

Michael stops and frowns. 

_aren’t you out?_

_Obviously not dickhead or I wouldn’t be asking you to my room ; )_

Michael rolls his eyes. He’d been planning on putting on his sleep pants and having an early night - lie in bed and play his PS3 until his eyeballs fell out, most likely - but if Harry is around and wants to see him Michael’s not going to say no. 

He forgets sometimes that Harry’s not that much older than he is. He’s probably banned from the bars and clubs in the US the same as Michael, and if he’s choosing to spend his time making out with Michael in a room ten times the size the one Michael’s supposed to be staying in and with no roommate to boot, Michael’s all for it.

_I’ll be there in a few_

*

Michael is probably going to die. 

He doesn’t want to, and man, Calum’s going to be pissed when they have to cancel the rest of the tour because Michael is dead, but it’s the only option, really. Lying in Harry’s bed with Harry naked and spread out on top of him, his hands on Michael’s waist and thighs, tongue slick in Michael’s mouth, well, it’s the only option Michael can really think of. 

Dead. Death. Death by Harry Styles. 

It’s not even a bad way to go, now that he thinks about it.

Harry’s room is stuffy. Warm air from his shower filters out of the bathroom and into the main part of the room, and the citrusy smell of his soap and shampoo hangs thick in the air. Harry’s body is warm, his skin is soft and damp, and his hair hangs wet over his eyes, the edges tickling Michael’s forehead and cheek when they kiss. 

They’d talked for a little while when Michael first came down: inane things like the show and the weather and the new song Michael’s been working on with Calum for the past few days, but then talking led to kissing and kissing led to touching, and now, Christ, now Michael’s so turned on he can barely think, his body shaking under Harry’s hands and mouth. 

“It’s fun being in a bed,” Harry mouths against Michael’s chin. Michael manages to nod, and Harry bites into Michael’s bottom lip and grins up at him. “Been thinking about getting you into my bed for a while now.”

Michael has no idea what to do with that. He always thinks he’s doing all right with Harry; they’re friends. They work together. Sometimes they make out, and sometimes they give each other rushed hand jobs in the back halls of venues after a show or before bus call. They haven’t – they don’t do _this_ ; this kind of slow kissing and Harry’s hands dancing up and down Michael’s sides. Harry covers Michael’s mouth with his and kisses him again, slick and wet and slow, and Michael’s brain feels like it’s melting out of his ears. 

“I want to try something, yeah?” Harry’s pulled back, his eyes wide and serious. His mouth is bruised red and wet, and he pushes the hair back from his forehead. 

Michael shifts under him, their bodies slipping together, tacky with sweat. Michael hadn’t been wearing that many clothes when he got to Harry’s room; Harry had been wearing even less, but now they’re both down to nothing, Harry’s leg slotted between Michael’s, his dick hard and hot where it’s curved against Michael’s hip. 

“I. Yeah,” Michael stutters. He hates feeling like this, so inexperienced and stupid around Harry, more like the bumbling seventeen year old that he feels like inside with none of the swag he tries to put across to the rest of the world. Harry gets that, though. He never makes Michael feel young or dumb no matter how hard Michael’s head disagrees. “What do you want to do?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Harry flashes him a brilliant grin. “Just let me know if I do something you don’t like, all right?”

Michael nods. “Yeah, ‘course.” 

Harry fumbles around in the bedside drawer, but when he comes back he just dips his head and kisses Michael again which is, whatever, it’s good, it’s great, but it’s nothing different. Michael’s not sure what he was expecting but it was possibly more than this. 

Harry presses kisses to Michael’s chin and jaw, licks over his throat and lightly bites against his Adam’s apple. His damp hair slides over Michael’s chest, and Michael sinks his fingers into it, pushing Harry down a little when he starts mouthing at Michael’s side and belly. 

“Fuck,” Michael breathes when Harry’s lips bump the head of his dick. “Fuck, yeah.”

“Gimme a minute,” Harry mumbles. He shifts around, settles himself better between Michael’s legs and taps the inside of Michael’s thigh with his wrist. “Move a little.”

Michael does. He lets his legs fall open, Harry’s mouth wet and hot and fucking amazing on his cock. They’ve done this a bunch of times but never like this, all lain out and spread open for Harry to take whatever he wants. Harry curls his fingers into Michael’s hips, digs into the skin hard enough to bruise and hollows his cheeks, taking Michael in deep. 

Michael rocks his hips up and shoves the hair back from his face. He’s so busy watching Harry’s face, the soft fan of his eyelashes on his cheeks that he misses when Harry slicks his fingers up only noticing when he rubs them over the base of Michael’s dick then slipping back, over his balls and oh—

 _Oh_.

“Holy _fuck_ ,” Michael chokes out as Harry rests his finger against Michael’s hole. He just – he’s got it. He’s thought about this, wondered about it, _wanted_ to have it happen even. Christ, but it’s still a _big thing_ , and it makes him nervous. This is just – this is _big_. This is huge for him. Harry must sense that because he stops, mouth pulling off Michael’s dick with a soft pop. 

“Are you ok?” Harry asks. He’s resting his chin on Michael’s thigh, eyes heavy lidded and serious. Michael’s having a hard time processing his thoughts enough to make words. All he can feel is the quiver in his belly and the heat of Harry’s hand curled around the back of his thigh. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

“No, I do,” Michael rushes to say. “I really do. I just, I never have?” He feels his face scrunch up, and his cheeks go hot. “Sorry, it’s dumb.”

“It’s not.” Harry turns his head and kisses Michael’s thigh. Michael can feel the curve of Harry’s smile against his skin. “We can wait.”

And Michael…doesn’t want that. This is rare enough, having a night together with a bed in a hotel with no one else around. Christ knows when it will happen again, and if Michael says no and misses this he’ll never forgive himself. 

“No, I want to.” Michael shifts his hips a little, lets his leg fall to the side and props his foot on the bed. “Just – slow, all right?”

“’Course,” Harry says and smiles. Michael’s dick is only half hard from all the bloody talking, so Harry takes him in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the head and working his slick fingers over the shaft until Michael’s thick and hard on Harry’s tongue. 

This time when Harry touches him, Michael is expecting it. He still goes tense, but Harry’s licking and biting his hip, blowing cool air over his skin and making his body shake. Harry slowly works a finger into Michael, and Michael throws an arm over his eyes because he can’t look, can’t watch Harry doing this to him without blurting out all the horribly sappy things he’s trying to keep on the back of his tongue. Things about how much he likes Harry and how glad he is that Harry’s the one doing this with him first. Harry’s mouthing soft words against Michael’s skin, telling Michael how good he looks, how gorgeous he is, and Michael can’t take it, he wants more, wants everything Harry will give him. 

“Do another,” he chokes out as Harry curls his finger inside him and stills. “I can – fuck, can you do more?”

“Yeah, ssh, I can, hold on,” Harry whispers. He pulls his hand away then goes back in with two and it hurts, it’s a rough burn, his body not used to the feeling, but once Harry’s inside it feels good again, so fucking good Michael wants to cry. 

“Is this ok—” Harry cuts himself off and curves his fingers up, and Michael cries out, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. 

“Oh my god what the fuck was _that_?” Michael can’t breathe. He can’t see straight. His body is on fire, like he’s made of nothing but one big nerve, and every place Harry touches him is going up in flames. His dick is so hard he hurts, wet at the tip and smearing against his belly. He needs to come so badly but doesn’t even know how to say it, doesn’t know how to make words that sound like anything other than the desperate choked off moaning he’s been doing. “Harry, fuck, please, I need—“

“Tell me,” Harry pants. He’s rocking against Michael’s leg, and the thought that Harry’s hard from this, from nothing but his fingers in Michael’s arse, his mouth on Michael’s cock blows Michael’s mind. “I want to make you come. Tell me what you want.”

“Your mouth.” Michael rolls his head back and forth on the pillow and pulls his hands away to clutch at the sheets. “I need to come so fucking bad, Haz, fuck.”

Harry slides his fingers out and crawls up to mouth the head of Michael’s dick, and that’s all he needs, the wet heat and the slide of Harry’s tongue. He comes in thick pulses, covering Harry’s lips and chin. He’s still shaking, he thinks he maybe won’t stop shaking for a damn long time, be Michael manages to pull Harry up against his chest, and lets Harry rub off on Michael’s hip until he’s biting into Michael’s skin and coming with a soft cry. 

Michael has no idea how long they lay there, only that when they try and separate they are _actually_ stuck together with sweat and come. “Ugh.” Michael wrinkles his nose. “Gross.”

“Yeah,” Harry grunts and shoves the sheets around until he’s got one pulled over the two of them, both of their heads sharing the same pillow. “Glad we showered before bed, yeah?”

Michael laughs. He turns to look at Harry, and the look on Harry’s face has the breath stuttering hard in Michael’s chest. 

Harry looks happy. His eyes are bright, and his smile is relaxed when he reaches out and takes Michael’s hand, sliding their fingers together and brushing a kiss over Michael’s knuckles. Michael’s heart does a funny little flip behind his ribs. 

“You’re gonna stay here tonight, right?” Harry asks. Michael nods. There’s no way he’s going back to his room looking the way he does, not that he even wants to. “Good,” Harry says and pulls Michael close, burying his face against Michael’s chest and closing his eyes. “’Night then.”

Michael runs his hand over the back of Harry’s head and settles into the pillow. 

*

“Well, well, if it isn’t Mr. Harry Styles doing the walk of shame.”

Ash is lying upside down on Michael’s bed with his head hanging off the edge. His hair is falling straight down and hitting the floor and he’s in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts and bright yellow plush pineapple slippers. 

“Fuck off,” Michael says and throws the complimentary newspaper from outside the door at Ash’s face. “What the fuck is on your feet?”

“New slippers!” Ash says happily, twirling his feet in the air. Michael rolls his eyes. 

“I can see that. Why are they pineapples?”

Ash shrugs and rolls off the edge of the bed onto the floor. When he sits up his face is bright red, and his hair is sticking up in funny angles. He grabs a pair of glasses from his pants pocket and slips them on his face. “A girl at the venue last night brought them for us. Hemmo’s got penguins, and Cal’s got dragons, I think?”

Michael frowns and looks around the room. “Where are mine?”

“Here,” Ash grins and tosses a plastic bag at Michael’s head. He opens it up and it’s a pair of plush dogs with crossed eyes and a tongue that lolls out to the side. He kicks his trainers off and shoves the slippers on. Every time he takes a step the ears of the dog stick up in the air and then fall back down. Michael just – he has no idea how this is actually his life right now. 

“Fuck, those are _great_ ,” Ash muses. He’s stood next to Michael, idly scratching his own chest. “You want the pineapples instead?”

“No.” Michael stomps his foot up and down just to watch the ears flap. 

“Sorry she didn’t get you _I love Harry Styles_ slippers instead,” Ash teases. He pokes at the bruise sitting low on Michael’s collarbone, and Michael flinches. Ash whistles softly. “That’s a nice one.”

“Fuck off,” Michael says and flaps his hand around. He pulls his shirt off and tosses it in the corner of the room then flops down on the bed staring moodily at the wall. The last thing he needs is the guys teasing him about whatever this thing is he’s got with Harry. Michael just, he doesn’t want to keep talking about it. Talking too much about things never leads to anything good, Michael knows that much at least by now. 

He feels Ash sit down next to him, his fingers tugging on Michael’s fringe. “You’re good though, right? Or should I ring the others and tell them we’re writing another emo ballad today.”

Michael kicks at Ash with his foot, but he’s smiling a little, rolling his eyes when he looks up at him. “I’m fine. Everything’s great. Now get out of my bed and let me fucking sleep a little bit, yeah?”

Ash stares at Michael for another beat, and Michael can tell he’s curious, that he wants to ask Michael something or say something about Harry but in the end he doesn’t, just yanks the slippers off Michael’s feet and bolts from the room shouting, “I GOT THEM! I GOT THE COOL DOG SLIPPERS, FUCK OFF, DICKHEADS!”

Michael groans and shoves his face into the pillow as he yanks the doona up over himself and settles in for a nap.

*

Michael’s been teaching Harry how to play the guitar for most of the time that they’ve known each other, and Harry somehow never seems to be getting any better at it.

“No, wait. Try this.” Michael gets up from the couch and wanders over to where Harry’s sat on the edge of his bed, glaring down at Michael’s oldest acoustic. The fingers of Harry’s left hand are twisted so awkwardly on the frets Michael wonders how he’s managed to make any kind of tune at all. Not that the tune’s he’s been making have been _good_ , but still. 

“I’m _trying_ ,” Harry huffs. “I’ve been trying every bloody thing you’ve shown me.”

Michael stands in front of Harry and clasps his hands behind his back. Harry’s still grunting and pulling faces at the guitar, his trackies sitting low on his hips where he’s sat on the bed. He’s not wearing a shirt, his skin damp from his shower, and Michael tries not to think about how this is the fifth night in a row Harry’s hung out with Michael in his room after a show. 

He just – Michael gets that Harry’s not really old enough to go to bars in the places they’ve been playing in the US, but still. The fact that he’s choosing to hang out with Michael regardless makes something warm flutter low in Michael’s belly. He’s trying really hard not to think about it.

Harry curves his fingers again, his wrist twisted awkwardly under the neck of the guitar, and when he strums it’s so loud and dissonant Michael actually grimaces. 

“Here, let me,” Michael says, and leans over Harry’s shoulder to try and help him a bit. Harry shoves forward and Michael rests a knee on the mattress, curving over Harry’s back and settling his left arm over Harry, his right hand resting on Harry’s hip. 

“You need to put your fingers here,” Michael says quietly. He takes Harry’s hand in his and gently slides his fingers up, pressing down lightly against the strings. “Spread them out a little more and press really hard, all right?”

Harry shakes his head and grins at Michael over his shoulder. He strums the strings again, and it’s not as awful as it had been before; still not _good_ , but Michael’s ears have stopped ringing and that’s always an improvement. Harry starts playing a quiet rhythm, over and over again with the same chord, and Michael smiles at him and nods encouragingly. 

“See? You’re not that awful.”

“You make it look so easy,” Harry complains.

“Well, that’s true, because I’m pretty much a rock fucking _god_ ,” Michael quips. 

Harry tosses his head back and laughs, the guitar sliding down his lap and onto the floor. Michael laughs along with him, always happy when he can make Harry think he’s particularly funny or charming about something, but then Harry’s twisting around on the bed, shoving Michael back onto the mattress and crawling up over him until they’re both at the headboard, Michael’s head sunk deep into Harry’s pillows. 

“Rock fucking god, huh?” Harry teases. Michael starts to tell him yes, he is, fuck Harry very much, but then Harry’s leaning down and covering Michael’s mouth with his, effectively licking out any words Michael had been planning to say. 

Michael’s got a semi already - he’d like to find someone alive who could watch Harry play the guitar shirtless in their hotel room and not be turned on by it - but it still amazes Michael when he feels how hard Harry is for _him_. Harry’s licking into Michael’s mouth, sliding their tongues together, twisting his fingers in Michael’s hair, and Michael runs his hands down Harry’s spine, fingertips dancing over the bumps of bone before settling over his hips, pulling Harry in close, lining their dicks against each other and rocking his hips up. 

“Fuck,” Michael chokes out. Harry’s licking his throat, biting his chin and squeezing Michael’s arms so hard he hopes to see bruises in the morning. He feels lit up from the inside out, half-crazy with want already, and it doesn’t get any better when Harry raises his head and blinks at Michael slowly, lips red and wet, and says, “Michael, Mikey.”

“Yeah?”

“I want you to fuck me.” 

Michael’s heart is thudding so fast he’s surprised he can’t see it beating clear out of his skin. His hands start to shake, and he clutches Harry’s hips tighter, pulling him in and tucking his head into Harry’s chest. 

“Jesus Christ,” Michael breathes. 

Harry stops kissing him, just props his arms on either side of Michael’s and blinks down at him, eyes clear and hopeful. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, I just—“

“No, I don’t. I mean of course I fucking want to, Harry, Christ,” Michael babbles. “I just. I’ve never, I mean, with a guy, and—“

He feels so stupid, his face burning hot and clammy. He’s such a _tool_. He doesn’t know why he acts like this or how to stop looking like a dumb fucking kid around Harry, but Harry just constantly throws him off kilter, makes him unsure of his footing. Every time Michael thinks he’s gotten a step closer to being even with Harry, Harry does something like this, and Michael is back where he started from, hoping like hell he’s doing everything right.

“Hey, I know, yeah?” Harry says quietly. He leans down and kisses Michael deeply, licking into his mouth until Michael feels more at ease. This Michael knows how to do. This he can handle. “We can go really slow, and if it’s too much we can stop, it’s fine. I just.” Harry bites his lips, his hair hanging forward and tickling Michael’s cheek. “I just really want you to if you want.”

Michael swallows hard and nods. “I do. I mean, I really want to, yeah.”

It doesn’t take long for them to change positions, Harry on his back and Michael hovering over him. Harry’s got the lube and a condom out, and Michael’s trying to stop his hands shaking enough to open Harry up, his fingers slick and sliding back over Harry’s hole. 

“That’s good.” Harry’s got his feet planted on the bed, and his head’s thrown back, the long line of his throat pale and damp with sweat. Michael wants to bite him, wants to lean over and kiss him so badly he physically hurts from it so he does, leaving his finger snubbed up against Harry’s entrance, his teeth dragging over the thin skin of Harry’s collarbones and neck. “Mikey, please, fuck.”

“Yeah, yeah, ok.” Michael slips one finger in, and Christ, it’s so tight, so hot. He remembers when Harry did this to him, how he felt so full, so on fire from just that touch alone, and if he can make Harry feel anything like that at all he’s damn well going to try. “Just tell me if you need me to—“

“Do two,” Harry says, and mother _fuck_ , Jesus, Michael seriously cannot handle this. “Come on, I can take more, I just. You need to stop being so nice, Mikey, fuck.”

Michael blinks. “You don’t want me to be nice?”

Harry opens his eyes slowly, the green gone hazy and stupid. He bites his lip and sucks in a breath as Michael slips his finger out and goes back in with two. “Not really, no,” Harry tells him. “I want you to – fuck – go deeper and twist your fingers up like, oh god, like that.”

Michael pays attention to what Harry seems to like, what gets his cheeks flushing pink and his fingers to twist knots into the sheets. Michael’s fucking into him steadily now, curving and stretching and twisting his fingers. Harry’s coming apart underneath him, and it’s the most amazing Michael’s ever felt. 

Harry’s not the first person Michael’s been with, but he’s the first person to trust Michael with so much, to give him so much all the time. Michael has to drop his head and concentrate on his fingers, on the way they’re moving in Harry and the slick bump of his dick against Harry’s, because if he thinks too much about _them_ he’ll come before he get anywhere near Harry’s arse. 

“Ok,” Harry pants. He shoves Michael’s hand away and presses a condom into his fingers. “Put that on and use more lube. Come on.”

“Are you sure?” Michael’s voice shakes, and he clears his throat. “Do you want me to do more or—“

“Your dick,” Harry says flatly. His mouth is quirking into a smile though, and Michael can’t help but smile back. “I want you to do more with your dick.”

Michael blows out a breath and rips the condom open. “Yeah. Yeah all right.”

He gets the condom on easy enough and then uses too much lube getting his dick wet, but it still takes way too long to manage to get anywhere near into Harry’s arse. Michael’s just – he’s not used to this. He’s used to girls. He knows where their parts are and how they work, and he knows what his stuff is and how _it_ works. He’s got no idea how to shove Harry’s legs back, exactly how to tilt Harry’s hips to get his dick inside, and every time he manages to get just the littlest bit in he slips back out. 

“I’m sorry,” Michael grunts as he slips out again. His face feels like it’s about to burn up. He catches Harry’s eye and looks away. “If you want we can forget about it, or—“

“Fuck that,” Harry says. Michael whips his head up and Harry’s grinning at him, reaching out for Michael’s shoulders to pull him down into a kiss. “I want you,” Harry says against Michael’s mouth. “I want you to fuck me. Just, here.” Harry keeps them close with an arm curled around Michael’s back, his fingers slipping over Michael’s dick. Harry lines Michael up with his hole and squirms down, urging Michael to move slowly, keeping him in place with his arm around Michael’s waist, his fingers rubbing gently over Michael’s skin. 

“Just go slow, yeah?” Harry says softly. He kisses the corner of Michael’s mouth, the edge of his jaw, and Michael finally feels it when his dick catches, when he slips in inch by inch until he’s buried deep inside, Harry breathing wetly into the air between them. “ _Oh_. Mikey, fuck,” Harry whispers. His eyes flutter closed, and he leans his head back, baring his throat and tilting his hips so Michael slides in deeper. 

Michael’s just – he’s fucked a lot of people in his life, but it’s never been anything like this. Michael is shaking, his head pressed against Harry’s shoulder. Harry’s running his fingers up Michael’s back, his nails digging deep into his flesh every time he manages to rock up at just the right angle to have the breath punching out of Harry in a choked off sob. Harry’s dick is hard between them, and Michael would love to help him out but he’s using every single ounce of brain power not to come in the first three seconds and can’t honestly figure out how to do anything that isn’t fucking Harry Styles, right here in this very minute. 

“I can’t – I’m gonna come so soon, fuck,” Michael curses. He wishes he could last longer, wishes he could keep doing this forever, fuck working and music and eating and sleeping. He wishes a lot of things right now, but none of them are going to come true because Michael is going to come and he’s going to come soon. 

“Do it,” Harry tells him. He shoves down, fucking himself on Michael’s dick, and that’s all it takes. Michael’s orgasm shoots up from his toes, racing through him until he’s dicking into Harry harder than he’s ever thought about, pushing Harry further up the mattress into the headboard, his fingers digging hard into Michael’s hips. 

Michael can’t breathe. He’s panting and sweating, and Harry shoves him away a little. Michael at least thinks ahead enough to hold onto his dick as he pulls out, so the condom doesn’t get lost somewhere in the bed or in Harry’s arse. He manages to pull the condom off and tosses it in what he hope he remembers is the direction of the bin, and before Harry has a chance to say or do anything Michael leans down and takes Harry’s dick in his mouth, sucking hard and holding his hips down into the bed. 

“ _Fuck_.” Harry shakes and moans, his legs falling open widely. Michael sucks him the best he knows how, trailing his tongue over the thick vein, sucking lightly over the head and using his fist to jack him slowly, fingers trailing over his balls, nails scratching into the skin of his inner thigh. 

“Mikey, move back,” Harry warns, so Michael pulls back enough that Harry’s come hits him on the chin and cheek and throat, the taste salty and bitter where it catches on his bottom lip. Harry watches him with heavy eyes then hauls him up and licks the come from Michael’s skin, kissing him deeply, moaning into his mouth, and sliding his fingers over and over again through Michael’s hair. 

When Harry goes to the bathroom to get a face washer Michael falls back into the bed, arms and legs thrown out wide. He waits for his breathing to go back to normal and stares up at the ceiling trying his hardest to think about nothing. After a minute a wet washer hits him square in the face. 

“Don’t hog my bed or you can go back to your room and sleep in your own,” Harry says mildly. He crawls in under the covers and kicks at Michael’s legs until he shoves over onto the other side, and he wonders what it means that he’s spent the past five nights in Harry’s room, in Harry’s bed. He wonders what it should mean. He wonders if it means anything at all. 

“Stop thinking,” Harry says sleepily and pokes Michael’s head. “Now come closer, so I can sleep.”

Michael looks down at where Harry’s already got his eyes closed, his head half on his own pillow and half on Michael’s, and breathes deep. 

“Stop thinking,” Michael says quietly. 

“Yeah,” Harry mumbles. “No more thinking. You can think tomorrow.”

Michael shuffles closer when Harry pulls him in and closes his eyes. It takes a long time for him to fall asleep.

*

Michael’s staring moodily out the bus window the next day when Calum comes over and plops himself down in the seat next to him, his legs thrown over Michael’s lap. 

“Ash and Luke want to know if we want to play them in Fifa. I told them that was stupid, because we’re just going to beat them so badly they’re going to cry again, but they keep insisting. You in?”

Michael blinks at the scenery going past him. He thinks they’re on their way to Texas by now. Something like that. There are just a few more dates left and then they’re off to Canada again, he remembers that much. Fuck, but America is big. 

“Hey.” Calum pokes his fingers into Michael’s cheek. “What’s got you all droopy today.”

“’M’not droopy.”

“You are.”

“’M’ _not_ ,” Michael insists. 

“I can almost see the sappy love songs you’re composing in your head right now,” Calum beams. “ _I’ve got such a crushhhhhh, I get such a rushhhhhhhhh, I’ve stayed in Harry’s room for the past six nights and been fucking him for months and I’m in love with him and I don’t know what to dooooo_ ,” Calum singsongs. 

Michael blinks. “That’s _awful_.”

“It’s _great_ ,” Calum says and grins. “I’m going to call the others and see if we can get it recorded before we hit Houston.”

Michael throws everything he can find at Calum’s head: his notebook, a loose pen, his left sneaker. “It’s terrible and it doesn’t rhyme and it’s all a lie anyway.”

Calum shrugs. “It’s terrible and it doesn’t rhyme but it’s not a lie, man. They can see your crush on Harry from fucking _space_.”

“Fuck off,” Michael huffs, because this is just – pretty firmly in the category of Shit Michael Doesn’t Want To Talk About Ever – his crush or whatever it is on Harry. Michael’s being stupid, he knows he is. He was hoping the bus ride would clear his head on how to be less stupid by the time they got to the next venue, but Calum doesn’t seem to be helping with that plan at all. 

“Nah, it’s cool,” Calum says happily. “Like, just think about it. Last year we were doing what – fuck all, right? – and this year we’re touring the world with _One Direction_ and you’re fucking Harry Styles. _Harry Styles_ , dude! Do you ever think about that?”

“Yeah,” Michael snaps, because that’s the problem. That’s the whole thing right fucking there. “I think about it all the time because he’s _Harry fucking Styles_ , Cal, and just like. What the fuck is he doing with me? I don’t get it; I really don’t.”

“Don’t be that way.” Calum rolls his eyes. “He likes you. You’re having fun, right?” Michael shrugs and looks back out the window. “Don’t turn this into a big _thing_ , Mikey,” Calum says. “Just be cool about this, yeah?”

Michael bites his lip and nods, but the problem is he doesn’t think he can; he thinks it’s already too late. 

*

Michael doesn’t even realize he’s doing it at first, but by the time they get to Canada he’s officially blowing Harry off. 

It starts off slow. He takes a little too long to text Harry back, and by the time he does Harry’s already busy again. He falls asleep in Ash or Luke’s room and pretends not to get Harry’s messages until the morning. There are a lot of different people on the road with them, and if Harry’s around Michael can almost always find someone else to talk to until Harry gets called off to do something else. 

It’s easy to do, even. Almost too easy. All it does is remind Michael that Harry is _Harry_ , and if Michael’s not around then someone else will be around to take his place. That’s all he ever was anyway, he figures. Someone to kill some time with, someone to hang with when there was nothing else to do. That’s the way it was always going to be. 

Michael was stupid for letting himself start to get really deep, stupid feelings about Harry. He’s just going to have to make them stop. That’s the only solution, really, and if being a dick and avoiding Harry is the only way to do it then that’s what Michael will do. 

It lasts until they get to Oakland.

Harry’s waiting for Michael when they finish sound check that day in the stadium. Michael had seen him from the stage snapping pictures, probably posting them to his Twitter account, and it blows Michael’s mind. By the time this tour is over their band is going to be in a completely different place than they’d been not even a year ago, and they have Harry and the rest of the guys to thank for it. It’s just – it’s insane, really. 

Michael sees Harry talking to Luke. He tries to grab his guitar case and pack his stuff up before Harry has a chance to corner him, but he’s too late. The next thing he knows he’s got Harry crouching down in front of him, helping him secure his guitar and close the cover. 

“Hey,” Harry says quietly. He’s watching Michael carefully, a small smile forcing his mouth to curve at the corners. “You’ve been hard to track down lately.”

“Just been busy,” Michael says quickly. He grabs his guitar and stands up, tries to catch Ash’s eye, but Ash is already heading out with Cal and Luke and Louis. “Lot of stuff going on, you know?”

“Yeah, no, I definitely know,” Harry says quickly. He stands up and wipes his hands on his jean then shoves them into his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “I’ve missed hanging out with you, though,” he says quietly, and shit, Michael really doesn’t need the way his heart pounds way too fast and quick over that. “Maybe after the show tonight we can hang out, yeah? Have some beers in my room or something.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Michael says, and he feels awful, really, like the worst kind of shit ever when he brushes past Harry to go after the others. “I think we might head back to the hotel after our set, but ring me when you’re done and back at the hotel.”

“Ok, yeah, I will,” Harry says. 

*

When Michael finishes the show that night he polishes off half a bottle of Jack Daniels in Calum’s room by ten and is passed out in the tub by the time Harry rings him. 

“Harry’s ringing you again, you douche,” Ash says and tosses Michael’s phone at his head. It makes a horrible sounding crack against the tile, and Michael groans and covers his face with his hands. 

“Fuck off,” he moans.

“You’re being a dick,” Ash says flatly. Michael peeks at him through his fingers, and Ash is really frowning at him, his face all squished and aggravated looking. 

“You look wrinkled,” Michael slurs and points. “Like, your whole _face_.”

Ash rolls his eyes and kicks Michael’s feet where they’re hanging over the edge of the tub. It shoves Michael’s whole body around, his head banging back into the taps, and he curses loudly. “Fuck, man, watch what you’re doing.”

“Watch what _you’re_ doing,” Ash says ominously. Michael blinks, and Ash kicks him again and rolls his eyes. “You’re being a _dick_ ,” he repeats then walks out, leaving Michael to stare up at the ceiling wondering when his life got to the point where his best friend has to yell at him in a hotel bathroom over Harry Styles. 

*

Michael wakes in Cal’s bed the next morning in the clothes he was wearing when he decided to drunkenly kip in the tub. His eyes feel stuck together, his mouth tastes like something horrible died in it, and there’s an incessant knocking at the hotel room door. 

“Caaaaal,” Michael groans. He flops around on the bed, so he can face the rest of the room and finds it empty. There’s a yellow post it note stuck to the front of Michael’s phone and when he peels it off he sees the large crack down the front of his screen. Fuck. He’s going to make Ash fucking pay for that. 

_your breath smells like ass_

That’s the note. That’s all it says. No clue as to where Cal and the rest of them are. No info as to when they have to meet up later or what’s on the schedule for the day. Just Cal’s messy scrawl telling him his breath stinks and whoever is outside intent on banging down the goddamn door. 

“Coming,” Michael croaks. He stumbles to his feet and rubs as his eyes as he crosses the room. He thinks he should be surprised when he sees Harry standing on the other side, hair shoved back in a beanie and a deep frown on his face, but he’s not. Not really. He’s pretty much been expecting it. 

“Wait here,” Michael says, turning his head to the side. He closes the door behind Harry, then goes into the bathroom to clean his teeth and use Ash’s mouthwash before going back out to talk to Harry. When he goes back into the room Harry’s standing off to the side, running his fingers over the strings on Michael’s acoustic, where it’s lying on top of the table. 

He looks up when Michael comes out and pulls his hand away, shoving it back into his pocket. 

“Hey,” Harry says quietly. 

Michael tugs at his fringe and bites his bottom lip. Harry’s watching him intently, his gaze never leaving Michael’s face, and Michael feels awkward and fumbly. He wishes he didn’t look like the bottom of a sewer or that his head wasn’t pounding quite so hard for this conversation, but then he thinks that maybe this is exactly what he deserves. 

“Hey,” he answers back. 

The silence hangs heavy and awkward, and Michael’s about to start babbling about anything in the world just to end it when Harry looks off to the side and says, “This is probably stupid, coming here and all. You’ve made it pretty fucking clear you don’t want to hang out anymore, which is fine. I just. I was just wondering, like, did I do something?”

Michael blinks. His stomach is flipping dangerously in his stomach, everything he drank last night curdling in his gut. “What? No. I just—“

“Because I don’t get it then,” Harry interrupts. “We have fun together, yeah?” He waits for Michael to nod, then says, “And I like being with you. And I thought you liked being with me, so I don’t get, like, you being such a complete fucking _twat_ lately.”

Michael wants to deny it. He wants to be angry with Harry, tell him he’s got some kind of nerve coming here and calling Michael all kinds of names and accusing him of all this shit, but the thing is he can’t. He has been acting like a twat; he has been avoiding Harry.

“Fuck,” he says instead. He holds his hands out, palms up, and shrugs a little. “Sorry.”

Harry laughs sharply. He tugs the beanie off his head and runs his hand through his hair, shaking his head and tugging at the headband until his curls fall loose around his face. “Amazing. You can’t even deny it,” he mutters, and Michael huffs, because Jesus Christ, what does Harry fucking _want_ from him?

“Look, it’s…whatever,” Michael says. Harry whips his head up like he’s been hit, his cheeks flushed pink and angry. “We hung out for a while and now we’re not,” Michael says. “I don’t get why you’re making such a big fucking deal about it.”

Harry shakes his head, eyes wide and says, “You don’t get why I’m making a big deal about it? We’ve been fucking each other for months, and one day you decide to just stop answering my calls but _I’m_ the one making a big deal about it? Christ.”

And this isn’t the way Michael had expected this to go. He figured if they ever had to talk about what had happened between them they’d just talk about it, matter of factly and without any of this weird swell of anger that’s pulsing through the room. He never expected Harry to seem so hurt by it all; Jesus Christ, he’s Harry fucking Styles, has he forgotten that or something?

“Look, Haz, we had fun, I get it. I know that, whatever, you didn’t have stuff to do at night on tour, so you picked me to hang out with. I’m flattered and everything, yeah? Like, it was fun and all, but—“

“Wait,” Harry interrupts. “You think I was hanging out with you because I had nothing better to do at night? For almost _six months_?”

Michael meets Harry’s eyes because sure, it sucks having to say it out loud, but it’s not like Michael didn’t _know_. “Well yeah. I mean, the clubs here are all older. I just figured you weren’t able to get into the places like Louis was and stuff, so you decided to stay here and hang with me. Which is cool, it’s just that—“

“You think that I decided to hang out with you because I couldn’t get into any bars here?” Harry says. He sounds shocked. “You actually thought, in your stupid fucking head, that I couldn’t figure out how to call someone and go out if I wanted to. You thought that. _Really_.”

Michael opens and closes his mouth a few times, because yeah, that’s exactly what he thought. “It’s just that, I don’t know, you’re _Harry Styles_ , you know? Why the hell would you want to be hanging out with me?”

Harry takes a deep breath and looks off to the side. He’s clenching his beanie in his hands, and when he looks back at Michael his cheeks and throat are mottled pink. “I was hanging out with you because I wanted to, Mikey, not because I had nothing better to do.” Harry’s voice is shaky. Michael feels like the biggest shit ever. “I just. I think I’m going to go now,” Harry says quietly. When he walks past Michael he doesn’t look up once. “See you around.”

Michael should say something; should try and get Harry to stay and listen to him, apologize maybe, but in the end he just stands there and lets him go. 

*

The tour is coming to an end. They’ve only got a few more dates left in the states before they head back home to the UK before going back _home_ home, as in Michael’s _real_ home, and it’s like every single thing they do, every song they play, every show they finish is like another mark, another _tick_ , another _yep, another day down_.

Michael and Harry aren’t talking. They’re not avoiding each other, really. It’s almost impossible to avoid one of the five members of the band your currently opening for on their world freaking tour, but there are five people in One Direction. If Michael somehow finds himself talking to the other four most of the time and Harry pretty much never, he’s really got no one to blame but himself. 

Michael just – he fucked up. He assumed Harry was just hanging out with him to kill time or because he didn’t have anything better to do. It never crossed Michael’s mind that Harry was hanging out with him because he wanted to, because he _liked_ Michael. He thinks he maybe should have figured that out on his own somehow, but apparently Michael’s stupid and he didn’t and he fucked it all up. So somehow, thinking Harry didn’t really like him made Harry _not like him_ , and wow, that joke’s on Michael on this one, isn’t it. 

They’re in the bus, bumping along the road after the last show in Chula Vista on their way to the final four dates in Los Angeles. Michael remembers lying with Harry in bed one night, the soft sounds of a cooking channel playing in the background, and Harry telling Michael all the places he wanted to take him when they finally got to LA. The restaurants and shopping and tattoo parlors and _fuck_ , Michael is a bloody fucking _idiot_. He just – how could he have been so stupid?

He’s got his head dropped into the palm of his hand groaning at his own idiocy when he feels the seat next to him shift as someone sits down. He recognizes the smell of Luke’s shampoo, can feel the heat of his arm pressed against Michael’s, and he’s glad for a second that it’s Luke and not one of the others. Luke is nice to him still. Luke maybe won’t make him feel like quite such a dick. 

“You realize you _really_ fucked up, right?”

Michael sighs. Then again, maybe not. 

He hangs his head forward and peeks at Luke from the corner of his eye. “I know.”

“You know what this reminds me of?” Luke leans back, kicking his legs out in front of him and leaning his head against Michael’s shoulder. Michael shrugs and Luke says, “It reminds me of year six, you and me and Cal, and remember you wanted a PS3 and me and Cal both got one for Christmas and you didn’t?”

Michael frowns. He _does_ remember, of course he does. “That was a shitty fucking Christmas.”

“Right,” Luke nods. “You acted like a total fucking dickhead about it, pissing and moaning and not talking to me _or_ Cal for no reason at all. Like, you totally made up in your head this whole reason why we wouldn’t want to play with you anymore without ever talking to us about it.”

“I figured you guys would just want to play your dumb cool games with each other and not like, that it didn’t matter if I was there or not,” Michael says quietly. Part of him wants to make fun of Luke for bringing this all up again, but part of Michael gets it. “I just. I didn’t know why you’d want to still hang out with me, too.”

Luke throws his arm over Michael’s shoulder and tugs him close. “Because you were a stupid dick then and you’re a stupid dick now. We wanted to hang out with you then because we were your friends and we loved you. And Harry wanted to hang out with you _now_ because—” 

“I got it,” Michael cuts Luke off. He doesn’t really want to hear the end of that sentence. He sighs and rests his head against Luke’s. “How did I fix it with you guys back then? I don’t remember.”

“You didn’t,” Luke snorts. “We came and found you and forced you to play with us again, and you were too small and scrawny to put up much of a fight.”

Michael smiles to himself. He remembers that now: Luke banging down Michael’s bedroom door, and Cal sitting on his back until he gave up and promised to come back out and play with them again. 

Somehow he doesn’t think this time is going to be that easy. 

“I don’t think it’s going to work that way this time,” he says, sighing heavily into the side of Luke’s neck. 

Luke chuckles and shakes his head. “Not even a little bit.”

*

Michael waits until they’re all checked into the hotel in LA before trying to track down where Harry’s room is. He can’t find any of the other guys and Paul just rolls his eyes and walks away when Michael tries to smile and coax the room number from him. In the end it’s Lou who gives it up, and Michael could _literally_ kiss her for it. 

“Thank you,” Michael says for the thousandth time in the past five minutes. 

Lou rolls her eyes and gives Lux a fruit box and a small pack of biscuits, and Lux toddles off. “I’m only doing it because Harry’s been a right twat for the past few weeks. Don’t make me regret it though,” she warns. “Not unless you want a sexy bald spot covering your _entire bloody fucking head_.”

Michael shudders and promises her that she won’t regret it. Not that he’s planning on it, but also because Lou can be scary; he’s only about twenty percent certain she wouldn’t shave his head just for fun. 

The lift takes him to Harry’s floor quicker than he’d hoped, and before he realizes what he’s doing he’s stood in front of the door, rocking back nervously on his heels and biting his lip. He reminds himself that whatever happens when he talks to Harry can’t possibly be worse than not talking to Harry at all, and it’s that thought that has him rapping his knuckles against the door quick and sharp, before he loses his nerve. 

When Harry answers the door he’s very clearly expecting someone else if the smile on his face and the way it falls when he sees Michael standing there is anything to go by. His expression closes off so fast, his mouth instantly turned into a frown as he stands there, blocking the doorway, and all Michael can think is: _fuck. I’m too fucking late._

“Can I, um. Can I come in?”

Harry watches him for a second then nods sharply and steps back allowing Michael to pass. He fiddles with his hands, twisting his fingers together in knots before shoving them into his jeans pockets, and thinks that maybe he should have planned this out a little better. He should be wearing nicer clothes, for one, something better than a pair of jeans that he’s been sleeping in a bus in and a Nirvana t-shirt that last saw the inside of a washing machine somewhere back in the UK. 

Harry looks perfect, of course. He’s got on a white t-shirt and a pair of dark jeans and his hair done like he was clearly on his way out before Michael barged in here with no idea what to say. Harry crosses his arms over his chest, and Michael holds his hands out, takes a deep breath, and blurts out, “I was going to write you a song.”

Harry cocks his head and narrows his eyes a little. Michael wants to kiss the frown line on his forehead. He wants to kiss a lot of Harry, now that he lets himself think about it. “What?”

“To do on stage,” Michael babbles. “Like, I’ve been working on some things – I’m always working on things, you know that – but I was going to write one for you and sing it when we were here. Well, not _here_ here, like in your room, but in LA, at one of the shows. I was going to do that, but—“

Michael stops. He has no idea how to say what he’s trying to say. 

“But what?” Harry asks quietly. 

“But that’s really fucking cheesy,” Michael says, and Harry laughs at that, just a little bit. “It’s cheesy and it’s not really me and that’s, that’s just it, you know?” He looks up and catches Harry’s eye, holds it when he says, “It’s just me, Haz. That’s all I can give you.”

Harry’s so quiet Michael can hear everything else in the room in the silence between them: the mini bar clicking on and the soft beep as Harry gets a text. “I never asked you for more than that,” he finally says. “That was all I ever wanted.”

“But you could have _anything_ ,” Michael says, throwing his hands up in the air a little. He paces forward, into Harry’s space, and tilts his head up the tiny bit to look directly in Harry’s eyes. “You could _literally_ have anything or anyone you want.”

“Apparently not, since I wanted you and you bailed,” Harry says quietly. 

Michael shakes his head. “I just don’t get it. I’m just _me_ , just, I don’t know, I’m great and all but you’re _you_ and it’s just—“

“Let me show you something and then maybe you’ll get it, yeah?” Harry says softly. 

Michael swallows hard past the lump in his throat and nods. Harry cups Michael’s face in his hands and his fingers are shaking. He brushes his thumbs over Michael’s cheeks and dips his head down to cover Michael’s mouth, and Michael can’t help himself, he curls his fingers around Harry’s waist and pulls him in, lets Harry kiss him as slow and long as he wants.

When they pull back Harry’s eyes are bright, his pupils dark and huge, and he’s biting his lip and resting his forehead against Michael’s. He kisses the corner of Michael’s mouth, the curve of his jaw and says, “Do you get it yet?”

“I. Yeah,” Michael bites his lip and leans in, Harry’s mouth warm and familiar, their lips catching and clinging softly. “I get it now.”

“Good,” Harry says, and kisses him again. 

*

That night’s show is one of their best yet. Michael plays his set to Harry, who’s singing and dancing along with them from backstage, and when it’s Harry’s turn out there, Michael lets himself watch and clap and cheer and smile and be happy. Michael thinks he maybe deserves this. He’s maybe earned it.

The way Harry grins back at him lets him know that maybe he’s finally got it all figured out.

-end-


End file.
